Fate's Ransom(The First Argentines #4)

Ransom looked into the distance, eastbound, and saw cliffs and shore. “Where are we? How far off Glosstyr?”

“These devilish winds are blowing from Glosstyr, I think!” said the captain. “Had to lower the sails, or they would have torn apart. We’re not making any progress at all.”

“How far, though?”

The captain shrugged. “At this rate, my lord, we’ll never get there.” He pointed to the south. “That way be Averanche. We’ve a better bet of getting there, but if this storm keeps up, we might shipwreck before we reach shore.”

Ransom frowned and shielded his eyes. The day was waning quickly. The thought of fighting the storm all night filled him with dread. “What other options do we have?”

The tiller yanked out of the captain’s hands, and it took the strength of both men to get it under control again. The captain’s eyes blazed with fear.

“The cliffs yonder are dangerous, but there’s a sanctuary over there. St. Penryn. Have ye been there?”

Ransom nodded slowly. It was a visit to St. Penryn that had sent him on his quest to the oasis. “Aye. Years ago.”

“They have a cove that might shield us from the worst of these winds. We could drop anchor in there, and you could take a horse to Glosstyr from the sanctuary. Seems less reckless than trying to sail against the wind.”

“I agree,” Ransom said. “Take us there.”

“I’ll try to coax her there, my lord, but the cog is going where she wants to go.”

“Good man,” Ransom said, clapping the captain on the shoulder. He decided against trying to walk back down to the lower deck after watching a sailor slip, slide to the edge of the ship, and catch himself before he tumbled over the deck. Much better to stay put, with a firm grip on the railing. The captain steered to the new course, and the waves began to hit them from behind.

Spray smacked Ransom in the face. His tunic was drenched already.

They fought the storm every bit of the way, but at dusk they finally reached the cove with the sanctuary of Our Lady at St. Penryn. Fires were burning from the upper cliffs as well as the lower ones, a welcoming beacon to the weary seamen.

“It was good of the deconeus to leave the lower lights burning!” shouted the captain. “We can see the cliffs much better!”

As soon as they entered the cove, the wind calmed considerably, and the fear inside Ransom’s chest began to ebb. The crew used oars to row with the current. Ransom looked up at the shining spires of the sanctuary and felt moved to offer a silent prayer of gratitude for having made it to safety. Two other ships were in the cove, both larger vessels with the markings of Genevar. It seemed they’d had the same idea.

After sunset, they reached the dock in calm waters and moored the cog in one of the berths. A sailor fixed the plank for Ransom and his knights to cross, and when they did, Ransom’s stomach finally settled from the seasickness that had plagued him. The Genevese ships had crews aboard, and he recognized the sound of their language as he heard them talking amongst themselves. He walked down the dock and led the way up the path to the sanctuary. He was met partway up by an acolyte bearing a covered lantern.

“Greetings, travelers!” said the acolyte. “Where do you knights hail from?”

“We were blown off course from Legault on the way to Glosstyr,” Ransom said. “Would you tell the deconeus that the Duke of Glosstyr is here?”

“You’re Lord Ransom?” asked the acolyte with interest.

“Yes. It’s been a long and wearying day.”

“Come with me. I’ll be your light and will tell the sexton to prepare rooms for you all.”

“Thank you.”

They trudged up the steps until they reached the upper cliffs, from which the massive torches illuminated the evening sky. A quiet hush fell over his heart upon seeing the familiar walls of St. Penryn. The last time he’d come here, it had been with a broken heart. He’d just been dismissed by Devon the Younger, and the deconeus had sent him on a journey that had ultimately brought him here, to this day. He dropped his hand to his sword pommel, feeling the comforting bulk of the scabbard he’d been given on that pilgrimage.

When they entered the sanctuary, there were plenty of guests already in attendance. The acolyte announced them to the sexton, who quickly summoned the deconeus. The man emerged promptly and offered a warm greeting. It was, Ransom realized, the same man who had advised him all those years ago.

“It’s good to be back,” Ransom said, bowing to the elderly man.

“Have you been here before, Duke Ransom?” asked the deconeus.

“Long ago,” he answered. “Thank you for giving us shelter.”

“Benevolence is one of the aspects of the Lady,” said the deconeus. “A Genevese merchant ship was blown off course . . . this is the captain, Weyrich. And we’ve other visitors too. A ship of mercenaries, bound for the king, was also unable to reach their port. Are you going to the king as well, my lord?”

“I was going to Glosstyr,” Ransom said. “I left Legault this morning.”

“Perhaps it is the Fountain’s will that you were waylaid by the storm. Come have some supper. You and your knights must be hungry.”

The acolytes set up an extra trestle table and chairs for Ransom and his knights. After a short wait, plates of venison and vegetables were brought out. The meat was sparse, so midway through the meal some peppered fish was brought out to accompany it. Ransom enjoyed every bite of the meal, and the wine served with it had a mellow, pleasant flavor.

The captain of the merchant ship raised a cup to toast the deconeus’s hospitality. “A cheer for our gracious host!” said Captain Weyrich. “Hup, hup!”

They all joined in the recognition, and Ransom leaned back in his chair. He’d thought about riding on to Glosstyr that night, but he was exhausted from the journey, and his knights looked as if they were content to stay at the sanctuary for the rest of the night.

“A blessing on your various journeys,” said the deconeus after things had quieted.

The captain knocked on the table. “Is this not the oldest sanctuary built in devotion to Our Lady of the Fountain?”

“It is, Captain Weyrich,” replied the elder man. “It is the last and the first.”

The captain’s brow wrinkled. “How can it be last and first? Explain this riddle.”

The deconeus was at the other table, but he was close enough that Ransom and the others could easily hear him.

“It was the only sanctuary to survive the flooding of the ancient kingdom of Leoneyis,” he said. “Because it was built on higher ground. All who fled here were spared.”

“The drowned kingdom is only a myth, Deconeus,” the captain argued.

The deconeus gave him a pointed look. “Is it? Our fishermen continue to pull artifacts from the sea. Helmets with barnacles. Swords cankered in rust, brittle except for the hilts. If you would see evidence, Captain Weyrich, I can show you.”

The captain shook his head. “Of course one would find such things. Many wars have been fought in this land and along its shores. It proves nothing. But if you wish to believe a kingdom was once swallowed by the sea, I will not mock you for it. Even in Genevar we have heard the tales of King Andrew.” He raised his cup again in salute and took a sip from it.

If the deconeus was bothered by the comment, he didn’t show it. “And do the stories you’ve heard in Genevar speak of the prophecy of the Dreadful Deadman?”

“Are not all dead men dreadful?” quipped the captain.

Ransom leaned forward in his chair. He’d felt a throb in his heart at the deconeus’s words.

“Alas, many are,” said the deconeus. “So you have not heard the prophecy?”

“Enlighten us,” said the captain with an indulgent smile.

“King Andrew was mortally wounded during a battle with his bastard son. He had dismissed his first knight, who was falsely accused of seducing the queen, so he had no champion to fight his battle for him.”

A shiver went through Ransom’s heart. He wasn’t hungry anymore.